


Left Unsaid

by iamowedbetter



Category: Lewis (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Comfort, Crossover, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamowedbetter/pseuds/iamowedbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does Greg cope after the fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So I needed to write this because it refused to leave me alone. It's finished, but needs some desperate improvements. You may notice a constant change in tense. This will be changed, in time. Any other mistakes do not need to be pointed out, either, as I will be reading this again at some point to check it. There is smut, I guess, but it isn't exactly explicit.  
> Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

They meet up again in a café, Speedy’s, Jean recalls the sign saying, and it’s like nothing has changed. Jean Innocent and Greg Lestrade had been partners, back in the day, before Jean had run off with her husband to Oxford. The pair usually went to get a beverage before work and, even though they never stayed in their coffee shop of choice, it feels like that now, for Greg. 

When she walks in, her hair bouncing around her shoulders, Greg finds himself almost beaming. He hadn’t expected to be so happy to see her, even if he had loved the woman from practically first sight. He appreciates how curvaceous she still looks after almost three decades; especially appreciates the amount of leg and cleavage she is showing. Jean acknowledges his wishful glances with a smirk as she gets her tea, knowing the poor man probably can’t wait to peel the lavender number from her body, and then takes a seat opposite him.

“I heard you were shot.” Greg speaks so casually that Jean thinks, for a moment, it isn’t such a big deal. He’s staring, she can sense it, but she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact. After all, she’s too busy sorting her tea. 

“Yes. ’99,” she finally looks up then, a frown ruining her features, “you could have called.”

His response is to shrug and raise his cup to his lips, gently blowing away the steam before sipping the black liquid. She supposes that, if he has remembered, he clearly cares. Being unable to pick up the phone when it came to Jean was one of Greg’s many faults, and it had probably ruined their chances of being together. It was best not to dwell on that.

“Why am I here?” Jean finishes the tea she was preparing, and warms her hands with the hot cup as she awaits his answer.

Silence reigns for a good couple of minutes as Greg thinks, and Jean feels far too awkward to break it. She needs her answer, preferably soon; she’s in no mood to distract him from his thoughts and risk not getting one.

“Because I need you.” 

She decides she won’t question _how_ exactly, but the options floating around in her mind would require privacy anyway. It means she can act casually about asking if he has booked a hotel room, and he can feel at ease just giving her a simple nod. 

* * *

 

They practically slot together like it hasn’t been twenty-seven years, and Jean doesn’t fail to notice how well he remembers her body. He’s gentle with her, and the brunette knows it isn’t for his own benefit. She can practically hear his mind whirring with stressful thoughts, and disapproves entirely.

“ _Greg_ …” The tiny mutter and sympathetic look is encouragement enough. The pair are soon like they were in their younger days: fast and eager and so very desperate. They manage to switch positions relatively fluidly, which surprises them both, but it is not mentioned as Jean takes the lead. There’s no need to physically hold Greg down, for a small glare when he attempts to reach for her bouncing breasts is his signal to keep still. However, when Greg tells her to stop, she does. And when Greg tells her to get off, albeit a little more reluctantly, she does. And when Greg tells her to lie on her back, spread her legs and prepare for the pounding of her life, she giggles. 

* * *

 

The bed creaks, Jean notes, whilst Greg is sleeping and she is shifting. She takes the opportunity to glance around the room, light spilling in through the thin, cream curtains. It’s all very plain, everything in order, and she finds herself unsurprisingly liking that. She imagines it to be the sort of room a prostitute would work in, though. Or somewhere for a secret tryst. A hotel by the Thames; an expensive room. It doesn’t strike her as a room that would be stayed in for very long at all.

When he wakes, her palm is flat against his chest. Jean decides that the grey hairs suit him, far more than the bare chest he used to sport. She supposes that they’d wanted to impress their first time together. Clean shaven and waxed, in every area they thought the other would prefer _without_ hair. After the first fuck, however, the pair were not so worried about the potentially dislikeable hairs on their bodies, for they knew that, with the ability to shag like that, neither would even care. Jean still doesn’t. 

Greg has an arm around her shoulder as he stares into space, and Jean is almost certain that it’s only because he would feel awkward putting it anywhere else. 

“Remind me why you needed _me_ , Greg…” The mumbling brings him around and he looks down, at the top of her head. She doesn’t need reminding, he knows, she needs _telling_. And he isn’t sure if he truly understands himself.

“I don’t know…” He’s happy to make Jean feel, at least, slightly content with an answer, even if it isn’t what she might have been searching for.

“Sherlock.”

“Pardon?”

“Holmes.”

“…Yes. Yes, I got that.”

“Well. That is why I’m here, isn’t it?” When Greg doesn’t answer straight away, Jean slowly slides from his loose grip. She sits up and gives him a stern look that would have got her an answer, years ago. Not now.

It strikes Jean quite suddenly, the realisation that Greg only called her because he knew she would come. And Jean was glad to shag him, if that would improve his state of mind. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to. But she also knew that just having sex with the man would not make him better. If Jean Innocent was going to comfort Greg Lestrade, there would be talking as well as more strenuous activities. 

New tactics are needed, she decides, before slipping out of the double bed. As she retrieves her clothing, previously strewn around the room, Greg says nothing. When she has her underwear around her ankles, though, after putting her simple bra back on, he realises that he really doesn’t want her to leave him now. 

“You understand. That’s why. It’s caused by work, mainly, the stress.” Jean stops; is inclined to believe the man. “He’s dead, Jean. I didn’t believe him, I turned my back on him, and now he is _dead_!”

His shouting isn’t exactly pleasant, but Jean knows it isn’t exactly going to give her a headache. In this sort of situation, normally, she would feel pity for anyone. Greg is different. On one hand, she knows he used an extraordinary man to solve most of his cases, and that if any of her team were to do that they would find themselves without a job. On the other, he was swayed by popular opinion. Popular opinion that Sherlock Holmes was a liar, and deserved to fall to his death. She thinks that, hopes that, Greg realises she isn’t one to succumb to the media’s word so easily. 

When his first tear falls, the first she has seen since he got drunk and confessed how much he loved her, Jean’s heart breaks. Just like it did then, she supposes. 

“I know, Greg.” Her comforting arms are around him in an instant, even if she is twisting awkwardly and her feet are trapped in some flimsy fabric. 

The next time he goes to speak, she silences him. Knowing Greg, he would merely try and make himself look macho again. Jean wasn’t going to have that nonsense. Besides, _sometimes_ , it’s better if things are left unsaid. 

**Author's Note:**

> Awful, huh?  
> Sorry about that. I really am.  
> Good Lord, it is dreadful... Sorry. Again.  
> FUCK OFF, LESTRADOCENT.


End file.
